


As Time Goes By

by Miss_Apocalypto



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Developing Friendships, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Female Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Apocalypto/pseuds/Miss_Apocalypto
Summary: A collection of moments between my Sole Survivor, Reyna, and Mr. Nick Valentine.
Relationships: Female Sole Survivor/Nick Valentine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Unlikely Valentine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions.

Red mist upon the glass of the Overseer’s window announced that Nick Valentine was not alone. He blinked, taken aback by the abruptness of Dino’s demise. Not that the idiot didn’t have it coming, but still—what a way to go. A moment later, a figure stood in place of the dead triggerman and peeped back at him through the newly tinted window. The killer, he presumed, but between the blood and the shadowy vault, he couldn’t make out the sharpshooter’s face. They were wearing a hood which didn’t help matters.

“Hey, you!” he called out, deciding he had a better chance negotiating his way out of trouble with a stranger than another one of Skinny’s brainless goons, “I don’t know who you are, but we got three minutes before they realize muscles for brains ain’t coming back.” Perhaps a _slight_ exaggeration. Probably no one cared, but the hooded merc?—raider?—scavenger?—didn’t need to know that. “Get this door open.”

The figure nodded once, curtly, and disappeared. Then someone else stepped in view of the window. Someone much more familiar, even through the gore and poor lighting. “Piper?” She waved at him but wisely did not shout back in response. She was grinning, though. That much he could tell. “Huh.” _What was the Wright dame doin’ out of Diamond City?_ He heard furious typing on the terminal outside the door. _And in such dubious company?_ There was a pneumatic hiss and the security door slid open.

Two things became immediately apparent. First, the person who killed Dino—his apparent rescuer, it seemed—was a woman. The silhouette of her curves cut recognizably feminine shapes in the dim light where she was framed by the open door. And second, she was a professional of some sort. Armor wasn’t top-tier but that kind of gear was hard to come by if you didn’t have the luck, the skill, or the caps. The clothing beneath her leathers, though, was tactical—green fatigues, a thin, black, long-sleeved, hooded sweatshirt, black combat boots, and fingerless gloves—and the weapon she still held in her hand, the one she had used to kill Dino, was a small caliber pistol, good shape, expertly modified, and _silenced._ Assassin’s preference next to rooftop longshots. So, not a raider or a scavenger. He was leaning more towards merc. New to the game maybe? Because of the lack of gear? Even inexperienced guns-for-hire didn’t come cheap to the average civilian, so—what was she doing here, in the middle of Skinny Malone’s deep, dark vault?

“Nick Valentine?” she said. Her voice had a pleasant timbre to it. The kind that reminded him of good whiskey—back when he could drink it—and fine cigars.

Piper poked her head around the corner. “That’s him, alright,” she assured before he had the chance to answer for himself.

He smirked as the firecracker reporter slipped into the room. “Good to see you, too, kid.”

She scoffed. “Look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time, Nick,” she chastised him, though she had no room to talk given the kind of trouble her own little endeavors for her paper tended to stir up, “Ellie was worried sick about you.”

Nick winced. “Don’t tell me she footed the bill for the services of our—mysterious friend—here.” He nodded to the unknown woman as he rummaged through his pockets on the hunt for his smokes. He leaned against the large desk at the center of the room.

Piper’s expression fell a little. “Not exactly.” She glanced back over her shoulder and made eye contact with the other woman. He found his pack of cigarettes as something wordless passed between the two ladies and perched the edge of a filter between his lips. He searched for a light. The merc gave one last look around the atrium before finally stepping inside the Overseer’s office, pushing her hood back as she did so.

He still didn’t see her face until she was standing in the halo of the overhead light. She had thick, jet black hair pulled out of her face in a tight bun and bangs that hung a little too long into the vision of her right eye. Big, dark brown eyes that burned into him like coals. She was attractive in that dangerous kind of way that calls to mind spiders and sharp things. Then again, maybe he only felt that way because of what he’d seen her do to Dino.

“Reyna Guerra,” she introduced, but instead of holding out her hand she held up a lit silvered lighter, “And I’m doing this gratis.”

Nick smirked in spite of himself and leaned forward, catching the tip of the cig in the flame and breathing in until it glowed ember red. Reyna swiftly flicked the lighter closed and stuffed it back in her pocket. An efficient gesture. “Gotta love the irony of the reverse damsel-in-distress scenario. Question is, why did our heroine risk life and limb for an old private eye?” he asked, smoke billowing out of his mouth and through the open parts of his face as he spoke.

Reyna’s eyes briefly darted over his expression, catching on the motion of the furling smoke. “It’s—complicated,” she said at length.

“You’ve come all this way,” he pointed out.

“Too complicated for _three minutes_ ,” she said pointedly.

“I may have— _fibbed_ —a little.”

Behind Reyna, Piper rolled her eyes, but Reyna only scoffed, amused. “I need you to find someone,” she answered, “But I don’t exactly know where they could be, or how long they’ve been gone.”

“Not gratis, then.”

She gave a little shake of her head, nearly imperceptible. “A favor for a favor—and neither of us is really in a position to walk away.”

_Spooky dame has a point._ He took another drag of his cigarette and nodded. “Well, I’ve done jobs with less,” he admitted, “Somehow ‘nice and simple’ never makes it onto the menu in my world.”

“You and me both,” Reyna commiserated.

He didn’t doubt it. “Well, Miss Guerra…” he began.

“Missus,” she corrected, automatically, but in the next second she looked stricken.

“Beg your pardon?”

“M-missus,” she repeated, clearing her throat and schooling her expression, “I’m married.”

That was clearly a sore spot. He wondered if it was her spouse she was after. _Another unfaithful husband—or wife._ Nine out of ten times when the hubby or the honey didn’t come home it was because they found another bed to spend the night in. She was risking an awful lot in rescuing a private dick she’d never met before if that was the case. “Ah, apologies, _Missus_ Guerra, if you’ve got troubles, I’m glad to help,” he assured and visible relief cracked the stoicism of Reyna’s face, “Now ain’t the time, though.”

“Agreed.”

“Let’s blow this joint. Then we’ll talk.” He flicked his spent cigarette onto the floor and crushed it beneath his shoe.

“Lead the way, Mister Valentine,” Reyna offered, standing aside to let him pass, “I’m right behind you.”

* * *

When Reyna first peered through the Overseer’s window at the man who was supposed to be her best shot at finding Shaun, she had to squint hard through the blood on the glass because she thought she saw two specs of light smoldering where his eyes should be. Her knee-jerk reaction was to assume she was mistaken. Seeing things after the long day she’d had traveling from Sanctuary to Diamond City and then Diamond City to Vault 114 in the hot sun. She was running low on supplies and ammo and patience. So, maybe part of her _hoped_ that she was just mistaken about what she was seeing through the bloody window because she wasn’t ready to have her world made unsteady again so soon just when she was getting a feel for this Brave New World.

“Hey, you!” the man beyond the glass shouted, snapping her out of her daze, “I don’t know who you are, but we got three minutes before they realize muscles for brains ain’t coming back. Get this door open.”

_Focus on the objective, Guerra._ She nodded, bee-lined for the terminal, and jacked her Pip-Boy into it. She had a basic understanding of programming workarounds from her military training. Enough to get her through low-security doors, but it wasn’t her specialty. Besides, back in the day, whole teams used to accomplish an objective. So, there had been a computer specialist to make up for her blind spots. _Not anymore,_ she reminded herself. The _new_ Commonwealth required more from her than that. The Pip-Boy helped a lot, though. Especially in a vault. So, it wasn’t long before she was stroking ‘Enter’ on the keyboard and the door was sliding open.

Only, when she was able to lay eyes on Nick Valentine without blood between them, she saw very clearly that she had not been mistaken. He did have glowing yellow eyes and they gazed curiously in her direction. She didn’t move, and her grip tightened on her weapon. Just in case. There were a lot of things in the wasteland she didn’t understand and most of them wanted to kill her. Maybe he was one of them. “Nick Valentine?” She let her training do the talking.

“That’s him, alright,” Piper assured far too brightly for the given circumstances.

“Good to see you, too, kid,” he grumbled. His voice was gravel, but warm and wry and welcoming. Reyna relaxed slightly. _So this is the detective…_ She still hadn’t gotten a very good look at him. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face, obscuring all but those yellow eyes. That and the power outages of the vault resulted in a mismatch of various emergency lights illuminating _some_ of the dark corners and corridors. Mostly, they just flickered obnoxiously. But she wasn’t going to step into the Overseer’s office and gape like a child at an aquarium, especially when they were all still in danger. _Three minutes,_ he’d said. It had already been five. So, she stayed outside the door, keeping an eye and an ear out for trouble just in case somebody _did_ actually come looking for the unlucky bastard she had just shot.

Her silence and obvious unwillingness to engage in the conversation Piper was having with Mr. Valentine did nothing to speed it up, however. Only when the reporter directly pulled her into their exchange—locking eyes with her in a surprisingly stern, insistent expression—did Reyna finally and reluctantly abandon her vantage out in the atrium. She entered the office, eyes glued to the detective who was searching his pockets for something. A lighter, probably, since he had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. A fellow smoker, she empathized and did the polite thing: offered her own light. “Reyna Guerra. And I’m doing this gratis.”

He hummed gratefully and leaned forward. In the flicker of her lighter, she saw his face. He was a man, but he wasn’t _human_. He was pallid white, his skin the wrong texture, and part of his face and neck were missing altogether, revealing glimpses of a metal skeleton beneath it. And the hand that held the cigarette to his pale lips was thin and mechanical, the flesh façade missing from it entirely.

_He must be a synth_ , she realized with wonder. She’d heard some of the residents of Diamond City gossiping about synth infiltration of the city. How worried they all were. Afraid that they or their loved ones might be kidnapped and replaced by synthetic copies. Sounded terrifying, in theory, but either Mr. Valentine was a different model or people really had nothing to worry about because however humanlike the detective was, he clearly wasn’t actually human.

Oddly, none of this incited the same fear in Reyna that it had in the civilians of Diamond City. She was more intrigued by the idea—by Mr. Valentine, really—than anything else. She watched the cherry of his cigarette glow, watched his eyes half-close in appreciation of tobacco she now wondered if he could taste or feel— _Does he even have lungs?_ He must. He was smoking. Not human. But pretty damn close. So, she’d treat him that way. She pocketed her lighter again. Mr. Valentine straightened and spoke in the deep growl of that voice of his, “Gotta love the irony of the reverse damsel-in-distress scenario. Question is, why did our heroine risk life and limb for an old private eye?”

He hadn’t bothered to exhale. She wondered if maybe he forgot? Maybe he didn’t need to. There were any number of possibilities scratching at her skull as she watched the smoke snake passed his lips and through the damaged part of his face and neck, curling like fingers over the contours of his jaw, caressing that strange skin of his. She blinked, hoping he hadn’t noticed she’d been staring and gave a non-answer, not because she was second guessing hiring the man—he came highly recommended by Preston and Piper (and his secretary, Ellie, however biased her opinion may be)—but they were still standing in enemy territory, having a smoke and a chat.

Still, he pressed her with that subtle investigative stubbornness that all good detectives had and couldn’t turn off. It was just easier to tell him what he wanted to know. So she gave him a vague answer, unwilling to get bogged down in the specifics because, again, not to put too fine a point on it, but they weren’t out of danger just yet. Besides, what was he going to do? Refuse her? She’d just fought her way through a whole vaultful of submachine-gun-toting morons to save his synthetic ass. He _owed_ her. And it wasn’t as if she was offering the kind of work that might become untoward. Ethically, it was rather straightforward: help a mother find her kidnapped baby.

“Well, Miss Guerra…”

“Missus.” The correction flew from her mouth before she had the chance to stop it. _Not anymore_. Briefly, an image of Nate’s frozen corpse in the belly of Vault 111 flashed through her mind. The echo of a gunshot. The whisper of his and Shaun’s voices on that last holorecording. She swallowed thickly.

“Beg your pardon?”

“M-missus,” she repeated because, as far as she was concerned, the ‘Until death do you part’ clause of her vows was still too fresh and too sudden to be abided; she didn’t stop loving Nate just because he was—gone. She was still his wife. Anything else didn’t feel right. “I’m married.”

There was a marked pause from Mr. Valentine. He noticed her hesitation, she was sure, but he said nothing of it. She knew she would have to tell him eventually, though; if they made it out of the vault alive, that was. Nate’s death was an important part of finding Shaun. There was no way around that. Her pain was a compass now, and her son True North.

Mr. Valentine corrected himself when he addressed her again. He agreed to take her case, even skint on the details which she deeply appreciated. First things first, however. They had to escape, and Mr. Valentine promised that Skinny wouldn’t make it easy on them. “Lead the way, Mister Valentine. I’m right behind you.”


	2. Getting a Clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fast and loose with canon and a reuse of game dialogue in different ways.

Light can do a lot—can change a person. In the right light, anyone can be anybody, can be _somebody_. In the shadows of the vault, Reyna Guerra had appeared rather dangerous—sinister almost—as she melted in and out of darkened corners like hot tar. In the flare of Skinny’s lamplight, she had been hard and lived in the edges of her armor, ready to fight if smooth-talking didn’t pave their way out. She surprised Nick with her silver tongue. Surprised them all. Not least of all Skinny who lost his men, his girl, and his pride all in one strange evening. But he let them walk away. Because a debt was still a debt, and whatever quality of gangster Skinny Malone was or wasn’t, he always paid his debts and he owed a big one to Nick. Out in the sweet, moonlit freedom of Boston’s ruined streets, Mrs. Guerra was dangerous again. Even standing upright out in the open of that alleyway, Nick wasn’t sure he saw all the edges of her silhouette.

Now, they were back safe and sound in Nick’s office, and in the bright, harsh light of the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, Mrs. Guerra shapeshifted again. In this light, she was just a person, just a dame with a gun and a helluva shot, and she looked— _tired_. What was once suggestion was made solid. She didn’t melt into corners or hide beneath her hood; she sat there in the chair across his desk from him, long legs crossed and hands folded neatly in her lap, an expectant gleam in her eye as she waited for him to settle in.

“Let’s get down to business, Missus Guerra,” he said and nodded to Ellie who collected a battered clipboard, yellowing paper, and a pen to take notes. Even Piper fell uncharacteristically silent in anticipation of the story that was about to unravel there amongst the scattered, uneven stacks of casefiles. He wondered how much the reporter already knew, how much Mrs. Guerra might have told her, but he didn’t give it too much more thought as he shifted his attention back to his client, lit a cigarette, and began the interview.

“When you’re trying to find someone who’s gone missing, the devil is in the details,” he said with a professional air to his voice, “Tell me everything you can, no matter how—painful it might be.”

Mrs. Guerra’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard and wet her lips, taking a steadying breath. “We’re looking for my baby, Shaun,” she said and if Nick could breathe, all the air would have gone out of his lungs, “He’s less than a year old, so—there’s not much too him, yet. He’s small.” She made a gesture as if cradling an infant to give some idea of just how little he was. It was heartbreaking. “Darker than me like his dad. Little bit of black hair just—just coming in, and eyes like mine…” And those eyes were filled to the brim with pain and fear and worry.

“I didn’t realize he was so young,” Piper murmured, brow furrowed with concern, and she straightened off the wall she had been leaning against in the small hallway connecting the agency’s office space with Nick and Ellie’s living quarters.

Mrs. Guerra didn’t look at her fully, but she turned her head far enough to catch her in the corner of her eye. “Seven months day before we went into the vault,” she nearly whispered, “It had been a difficult pregnancy. They had to—I had to have a cesarean—I don’t know if you know what that is…”

“Real doctors still do ‘em,” Ellie whispered, voice already tight with emotion.

Mrs. Guerra nodded. “That’s why Nate brought home Codsworth—I couldn’t really hold Shaun without help for the first few months and Nate was finishing his tour so he couldn’t be there all the time…” She stopped abruptly and took another deep breath. “Sorry. That’s probably not important.”

“It is,” Nick said gently. Personally, the very idea that the woman who was sitting across from him was able to do _half_ the things she had had to in order to be occupying that chair in the first place so soon after having a major surgery to give birth was plain astonishing. For how fragile a human body was, it was also amazingly resilient.

“Just not to finding Shaun,” she muttered and cleared her throat, “I just don’t understand why anyone would take him.”

Nick took another drag of his cigarette. “That’s a good question,” he agreed, “Why your family in particular, and why an infant? Someone would be taking on all of his care, and a baby needs a lot of it.”

Mrs. Guerra fidgeted at the thought of a stranger caring for her child. “I don’t know what would _still_ be interesting about my family _now_ ,” she said, choosing to address the first part of his question, “Even two hundred years ago we weren’t all that important.”

Nick hesitated, cigarette still burning between his metal fingers, “You mean…?”

“We were in a Vault when Shaun was taken. Vault one eleven,” she supplied, “It was some kind of cryo facility.”

“You were on ice, huh?” Damn the shit that Vault-Tec came up with for their twisted little science experiments.

Mrs. Guerra nodded. “For two hundred and ten years according to Codsworth’s chronometer.” She picked at a small hole forming in the knee of her fatigues. “Before that—if it matters—Nate served in the army. And I—was a lawyer for the military justice department.”

“A lawyer?” Piper repeated in disbelief so no one else had to.

“Well, at least that explains the silver tongue,” Nick stated, amused by the idea, “I know lawyers have a reputation for being cutthroat, but not many know how to handle a weapon like you do, Missus Guerra.”

“I spent a lot of time at the range.”

Piper snorted. “Nice try, Blue.”

A long sigh escaped her lips, followed by a straightening of the sweater beneath her black leather chest piece. “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore,” she said, darkly, “I served also. In a— _different_ —capacity: intelligence.”

“You were a spook,” Nick stated.

She smiled bitterly. “I was a spook.”

That explained a helluva lot. Not just her skill with a weapon or moving silently through dark spaces, but also why she tended to say so little, why she chose to listen and observe. “A good one, too, I’d wager.”

“It’s not a bet if it’s a sure thing, Mister Valentine.”

He smirked. “Be that as it may, I don’t think your or your husband’s ancient history has anything to do with your son’s kidnapping. This all might have happened a lot differently if it had.”

“Simpler, too,” she agreed, “They could have just left us down there forever. Or killed us without anyone ever finding out.”

“Who’s still alive to find out?” Piper pointed out.

Nick nodded, agreeing with Piper’s observation. “It’s more important that you were underground,” he continued, “Sealed up. That’s a lot of obstacles to get through just to take one person.”

Mrs. Guerra nodded, pensively. “Vault one fourteen was much more extensive than one eleven,” she said, “There weren’t more than a few dozen of us down there and with the majority of us in stasis pods, they didn’t need to house or feed more than the staff and security.”

“Still got a big ol’ vault door?”

“It does.”

“That’s obstacle enough.”

“You need a Pip-Boy.” She tapped on the unit strapped to her wrist. “I noticed they are few and far between.”

“Anyone try to kill you for yours, yet?” Piper asked.

“Several times.” The way she said it made it seem more of an annoyance than a harrowing experience. Then again, she was a spook. And apparently a good one. Raiders and scavengers were probably nothing to worry about for her. Briefly, he thought of Dino’s blood on the Overseer’s window.

_Moving on._ “What else do you remember?” he asked.

Here it was: the big moment. Nick thought she had been emotional when talking about her son, he was not prepared for what she said next. “You know—they didn’t even tell us what was going to happen when we stepped into the pods,” she said, softly, “They said it was some kind of medical process that would depressurize us before we headed deeper into the vault.” Her brow furrowed. “And we were all so scared and—overwhelmed by what we had just escaped.” She sighed. “I saw the bombs drop. Felt the shockwave on my face before the vault doors closed above us. We were all so _grateful_ to be alive. We didn’t know.”

“Jesus, Blue. They lied to you,” Piper consoled.

“Hindsight’s a bitch,” Mrs. Guerra sniffed, “The last thing I saw before taking a two-hundred-year nap was Nate in the pod across from me, holding Shaun in one arm and reaching out to me with the other.” Her hand briefly lifted into the air, miming the gesture before returning to her lap. “He was trying to comfort _me_ because something wasn’t sitting right at the back of my mind and he knew it. And then it all went white. I should have—I should have paid attention. I should have done something. Maybe if I had…” she trailed off, “But I didn’t.”

She paused for a long time after that, but Nick didn’t rush her because he had a sense of where the story was going. They all did. He could feel it in the air that there was really only one explanation for why Nate wasn’t there with her and it wasn’t the relatively benign scenario of unfaithfulness he had previously assumed. “The next thing I remember, I’m waking up again. I didn’t understand what was happening, at first. The cryo sleep is—it hurts. Takes a lot out of you. Everything was hazy. Blurry. I kept blinking to try to clear my eyes but it didn’t help.’

‘There were two of them that I saw—but there must have been more…” Her eyes narrowed.

“Why do you say that?” Nick prompted.

“Timing,” she replied, “I—I’ve been over this a hundred times in my head. Cryo was reactivated while the woman was still walking away with Shaun.”

Nick nodded. “What else?”

“The two of them went straight for Nate’s pod. The woman was wearing some kind of hazard suit—a—a _clean_ suit, all white, and the man with her…” she rubbed her temples, “Damnit. He had something on his arm. A—metal brace of some kind? Like armor, maybe? Everything about him set me off.”

That was a definite advantage from her previous employment. She had a skillset and _instincts_ the investigation could take advantage of. “Why’s that?” he pressed, “What did that gut of yours tell you?”

“Hired gun,” she stated, sternly, “Expensive. The way he carried himself. Even the woman with him was jumpy in his presence. He wasn’t wearing a clean suit. And that voice. Low and rough. Like sandpaper across your face. And he carried a _big_ gun—revolver I think. Big caliber.” She paused again. “When the pod opened, the woman tried to take Shaun from Nate. I don’t remember what she said, exactly, but her tone was nice—I don’t think they would have s-shot him if he didn’t—if he didn’t try to stop her…” Her voice cracked and her jaw trembled. “He was just trying to protect our baby.”

Piper abandoned the wall altogether to stand just beside Mrs. Guerra. The young reporter placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and it was like watching a rock sail through a pane of glass: Mrs. Guerra shattered, choking back sobs and sniffing back tears in a furious attempt to soldier on through her story because what else could she do? What else was there to hold onto? But Piper, all spitfire and sharp tongue, she was a softie at heart, and she knelt to hug a woman she’d known little less than a day until she stopped crying. Ellie fetched a glass of water and a handkerchief to dry Mrs. Guerra’s eyes. And Nick—Nick just sat there, glued to his seat, watching the pain and the beautiful acts of compassion it incited unfold before him, but he couldn’t add to it. He didn’t have a warm body to offer comfort in an embrace. He didn’t have tear ducts to offer misty consolations. All he had was his copy of a human brain telling his metal heart the best goddamn thing he could do for a dangerous, capable dame like Reyna Guerra was to point her in the right direction and help her get her boy back.

“A-apologies, Mister Valentine,” she sniffled, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief Ellie had provided, “I don’t know what came over me.” There wasn’t a dry eye in the office except for his.

“Grief, Mrs. Guerra,” he said gently, “And you have nothing to be sorry for.” He knew that kind of pain. Remembered it. Carried it. Wielded it like a sword when his metal spine was against the ropes and he was swinging wild on empty. When his own artificial life felt like flagging. Like giving up. Sometimes grief was the only thing that kept a person going—even when it was secondhand. With a pang of self-loathing, he thought of Jenny, but he didn’t linger in the memory; it wouldn’t help Mrs. Guerra. “I imagine you haven’t had a lot of opportunity to tell your story before, have you?”

She wet her lips and mutely shook her head, unwilling to give a verbal answer for fear of bursting into tears all over again.

Nick nodded. “You’ve earned the chance to clear your head,” he said and glanced at the water she was sipping, “Need something stronger?” He didn’t usually condone drowning one’s sorrows, but he remembered the value of a little numbing power in the murk of Old Nick’s memories.

“God yes,” she croaked and Ellie bustled into the next room to fetch a glass.

Piper gave a half-hearted chuckle. “One for me, too, if you don’t mind, Ellie,” she called after his secretary.

Ellie came back with three glasses and an unopened bottle of bourbon she kept on hand for ‘emergencies.’ “Let’s set this over here for now,” Ellie soothed, taking the water glass she had provided Mrs. Guerra with a few moments before and placing it on a nearby filing cabinet, trading her for a full two fingers of bourbon. Mrs. Guerra did not argue and took a larger sip of her drink than she meant to. She coughed a little, took a deep breath, and endeavored to search her pockets for something. _Cigarettes_. She struggled to remove the pack from her pocket. “Now where were we?” she sighed.

Piper wiped her eyes on the cuff of her sleeve and accepted her glass from Ellie before retreating to another wall closer to Mrs. Guerra. She sipped her bourbon (a serving far more suitable than the one poured for Mrs. Guerra) and hummed in appreciation for the alcohol. Sometimes Nick really missed his tastebuds.

He wet his lips—or, more accurately, went through the motions of doing so because he didn’t have saliva. The only thing his tongue was good for was helping him talk, a task that would have been more efficiently accomplished by a speaker instead of a mouth. _More efficiently, but less friendly_. He preferred form over function when it came to smiles and cigarettes. He flashed a sympathetic smile, small and sincere at Mrs. Guerra as she fumbled with her pack of smokes, nearly dropping it on the floor as she plucked one free and gently hung it on the pout of her full lips. She removed her lighter from her pocket and struggled to light it; her hands were trembling too much to fluidly thumb over the wheel.

He removed his spare lighter from his desk drawer (he hadn’t been lucky enough to find the one he thought he had on him in the vault), struck it to life, and leaned across his desk to offer it up to her. Her big wet eyes flit to his hand holding the lighter, the mechanical one. Belatedly, he thought to switch to the more humanlike one, but she snapped her lighter shut with a sharp metallic clink and leaned forward into the flame before he could do anything about it. She was still shaking and steadied herself against his metal hand by lightly draping her fingers across the hinges of its joints.

That was—unexpected. It wasn’t often that humans voluntarily touched him. Beyond hugs and playful pats from Ellie and chummy slaps on the back from Piper and one or two overly gracious clients, he didn’t experience much in the way of physical interaction that wasn’t violence from raiders or synth-hating ne’er-do-wells. And never anything so gentle. Mrs. Guerra had hands that could easily kill a man and had—many times—he’d even seen it with his own optics, but they were soft, too. Maybe not in texture. He couldn’t tell. The framework of his hand was unfeeling, but there was a carefulness to her movements. Not cautious, exactly. Though he’d caught her staring at him once or twice, she didn’t seem afraid of him, merely curious. A little wary like someone aware of the power in her own hands and worried she might break something she didn’t understand. It was refreshing to see someone else worried about him for once. However unnecessary.

Mrs. Guerra withdrew, sucking hard on the filter of her cigarette with a shudder that bordered on a sob. “Thank you, Mister Valentine,” she croaked on the exhale, venting smoke in a smooth stream out the corner of her mouth.

“Please, call me Nick.” If she was going to share the intimate details of the worst moment of her life with him, then it was a small comfort he could offer.

“Nick,” she repeated with a grateful nod before pointing to herself with her lit cigarette, “Reyna.”

He smiled again. “Reyna,” he repeated and liked the way her name sat on his tongue, “You’ve been great so far. Given me a lot. You really are a sure thing: best spook in the business. The biggest mistake they made was leaving you alive.”

“You can say that again.”

“I don’t think this is a random kidnapping. Whoever took your kid had an agenda.”

Reyna pursed her lips and her gaze dropped to watching ripples form in her drink as she tilted it from side to side. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Of course that possibility had already occurred to her. He hated having to confirm it. “There’s a lot of groups in the Commonwealth that take people,” he continued, “Raiders, Super Mutants, the Gunners, and, of course, there’s the Institute.”

“Raiders and Super Mutants I’m _familiar_ with,” she informed him, “This was too skilled for raiders and too clean for Super Mutants—not to mention the noted lack of green.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “But you probably already eliminated them from the lineup.”

“Always best to make sure before crossing suspects off the list.”

She nodded. “You’re thorough. I appreciate that.” She shifted in her seat just far enough to ash into the tray on the corner of his desk. “I know the Gunners tangled with the Minutemen, but not much else,” she continued, “What’s their story?”

“High-end mercenaries. No job too brutal.”

“Brutal is putting it mildly.”

He hummed in agreement. “They’re in the running as likely suspects, but they wouldn’t be the ones pulling the strings.”

“No brains, just pockets to fill?”

“Bingo.”

“And the Institute?”

Ah, here was a topic he was not keen to discuss, no matter how necessary. “The boogeyman of the Commonwealth. Something goes wrong, everyone blames them.”

She took a very large swig of bourbon and _didn’t_ choke that time. “I’ve heard talk in the market. People are afraid.”

Selfishly, a part of him wanted to preserve her ignorance of the full, unfortunately well-earned reputation of synths in the Commonwealth because in her lived the unique opportunity of meeting someone who didn’t have the burden of history, didn’t have the litany of blood to shape her opinion of him. She’d never look at him the same way again once she knew the truth. But that wasn’t fair, and if she didn’t hear it from him, someone else with a sharper prejudice would enlighten her later.

“Easy to see why,” he said, “Those early model synths of theirs strip whole towns for parts, killing everything in their way. Then you got the newer models, good as human, that infiltrate cities and pull strings from the shadows.”

Her eyes narrowed, puckering her brow. “Why?”

“That’s the worst part,” he admitted, “No one knows why they do it, what their plan is, or where they are.” A brief pause. “Not even me, and I’m a synth myself. A discarded prototype, anyway.”

Her brow twitched a fraction further, but then relaxed. “I—didn’t want to ask, but…”

“You’ve never seen a synth before, have you?”

“No.”

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Count yourself lucky.”

“Wasn’t as bad as you think.”

“Oh?”

“You’re funny.”

He chuckled. “With a mug like mine, I gotta make up for it somehow.”

She smirked and gave a slight nod but chose to say nothing more.

_At least she’s not jumping to conclusions about me_ , he thought. “There anything else you can remember about the hired gun or the woman? Any identifying marks?”

She took another sip of bourbon. “The man came right up to me before they left. Got a real good look at his face before they reactivated cryo.” She took one last pull off her cigarette and downed the last of her bourbon as she smothered the butt in the ashtray. Then she set aside the glass and reached for something in her back pocket: a folded piece of paper. Neatly, she smoothed it out on her knee before sliding it across his desk. An imposing visage stared up at him from the page, inked in blue pen. “Bald head, scar across his left eye,” she said, “That’s the best I could do from what I could remember. Might not be perfect, but…”

_‘Not perfect?’_ It was a dead ringer for Conrad Kellogg. “You didn’t hear the name ‘Kellogg’ at all, did you?” he asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice and failing.

Reyna picked up on his eagerness. She shook her head, eyes narrowing as she strained her memory. “I _might_ have,” she said, wanting it to be true, but her expression was betraying her, “Everything was foggy.”

_Still…_ “Hmm—it’s way too big of a coincidence…” he muttered more to himself than to her. He turned to his secretary, who was already rifling through another casefile. “Ellie, what notes do we have on the Kellogg case?”

“He’s involved in another case?” Reyna asked, voice strained, eyes widening, eager for any scrap of a lead she could sink her claws into.

“Several, but he’s a slippery bastard to pin down.”

Ellie found the file and tugged it free of the filing cabinet with a delicate grunt of effort before slamming the thick folder down on her desk in a cloud of dust. She sneezed and flipped the folder open, scanning the contents of the first page. “The description matches. Bald head. Scar,” she leaned over Nick’s shoulder to get a peek at the picture Reyna had provided, “Certainly _looks_ like him.” Back to the info sheet. “Reputation for dangerous mercenary work, but no one knows who his employer is.”

“We all know what that means,” Piper added, darkly.

“And he bought a house here in town, right?” Nick pressed, fairly confident in his memory, but he had lapses sometimes like anybody else, “And he had a kid with him, didn’t he?”

Ellie nodded. “Yeah, that’s right,” she confirmed, “The house in the abandoned West Stands. The boy with him was around ten years old.”

“Ten years old?” Reyna repeated softly. Her tone was guarded. She didn’t want to give into the possibility, but she couldn’t ignore it, either. Just how much time passed between when Shaun was taken and when she escaped Vault 111?

“It might not have been Shaun,” Piper suggested.

“If it wasn’t, then where’s my baby?” she pointed out, sharply, “And how does a child trafficker operate in Diamond City unchecked?”

“That’s a good question for the mayor.”

“This isn’t your next headline, Piper.”

“Course not, Blue. What do you take me for?”

Reyna pursed her lips, clearly disappointed with herself. She turned to the reporter. “Sorry,” she said, “It’s been a long day. I didn’t mean it—it’s just… _ten years old?_ I missed his first steps.”

Piper’s expression softened. “No hard feelings,” she assured.

Reyna turned back to Nick. “You said he lives here? He’s still in town?” To her credit, she tried not to sound too demanding, but it was hard to miss the edge in her tone.

“They both vanished a while back, if I’m remembering right, but that house is still there…”

“How long ago?”

“A few weeks,” Ellie chimed in, “Almost two months, I think.”

“Just before I took the case for Darla,” Nick added.

“Around the time I set up at Sanctuary,” Reyna concluded.

Now that was an interesting piece of information. “Another coincidence?”

“No such thing, Nick. No such thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know in the game they leave a lot of timeline stuff kind of vague so that by the time the reveal of Shaun as an adult happens, your brain can kind of retroactively be like "Oh, yeah, I get it. It kinda all fits..." And your character never asks the plot-breaking questions, so it's fine. Only, if you really were in such a position, wouldn't you be a lot more involved in the process? A lot more obsessed? Ask all those annoying questions? This is your life, after all. Your kid. I guess I just wanted to make more sense of it, so I made some tweaks to events and there will be more canon "adjustments" here and there in the future. Just a heads-up.


	3. The Piper Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief stay in the Piper Suite.

“It’s not so bad,” Piper promised, trying to make Reyna feel better, “I’ve spent a lot of nights in here. It’s practically a second home.” Reyna just glared at her from the top bunk of their shared prison cell in Diamond City’s security office.

“It’s called the Piper Suite for a reason,” the arresting officer snorted from a nearby desk.

“Stuff it, Jimmy,” Piper snapped, then in a kinder undertone to Reyna, “They’ll cut us loose in the morning. It’s more hassle to keep us locked up.” That was a small comfort from where Reyna was sitting and a terrible end to an already horrible night.

Nick’s interview had been difficult enough. At first, she had been proud of herself for keeping it together when describing Shaun; minus a little over-share about her cesarean, she had managed to avoid hysterics. She had not been so strong when it came to talking about Nate, much to her surprise and dismay, but she supposed that came down to two things. First, Nick was right: she hadn’t had a lot of opportunity to tell her story to anybody except the folks back in Sanctuary and they already had their own problems. The Longs had lost a son—which was now her biggest fear. She didn’t want to add her pain to theirs. Especially Jun’s. Mama Murphy was sweet, but a crazy old biddy with a chem problem. Sturges seemed a good man, but he wasn’t really the type of person she felt she could open up to, and Preston—he was barely holding on. He never said anything, but she could tell because she was barely holding on, too.

Secondly, she still had a lot of hope when it came to finding her baby. Shaun was still alive out there, somewhere in the mess and ruin and radiation. Possibly older, but alive. That was good. She had to focus on that because it was a lifeline. But death, on the other hand, was so final. There was no hope in an inevitable end. No possibility. Nate was gone and never coming back. There was no hope for her husband, just damage. Just grief. Nick had been right about that, too. Her throat tightened again, eyes stinging with tears, and she rolled on her lumpy mattress to face the wall, turning away from Piper. Thankfully, the reporter could read a room and didn’t pester her further.

After the interview and the whole bottle of Ellie’s emergency stash (on an empty stomach, mind you, they were doomed from the start), the investigative trio had settled on a plan to get into Kellogg’s house and search the place for clues. “In the morning,” Nick had insisted, “After you two have slept one off.”

“Of course, Nick! What are we? Amateurs?” Piper had scoffed. Nick gave her a meaningful look, clearly suspicious, but he seemed to trust that Reyna had more sense. That was a mistake. A desperate mother could not be expected to have a lick of sense when she was liquored up and given a shining opportunity to find her child. The second they were out the door of the agency, Piper casually mentioned she knew where the house was in the West Stands, and the pair immediately and noisily made their way over there. “It’s fine,” Piper had assured, “Security doesn’t usually patrol this side of town.”

Except that night, apparently. Or maybe they had been attracted to the scene by the ruckus the two ladies made as they stumbled through the streets and over metal walkways to Kellogg’s front door. Could have been when Piper dropped her screwdriver, losing it through the steel grate, when she tried to pick the lock. Might have been when Reyna started crying again because she was tired and drunk and sad. Spy training didn’t count for anything when you were too drunk and emotionally distraught to remember any of it—which was why, generally, the first lesson they taught you was to never compromise yourself with _any_ substance to that extent if you could avoid it. Her former handler would have been so disappointed. She gave a mental shrug. What did it matter? He was two centuries dead and an asshole to boot.

Beneath her, the springs of the bottom bunk groaned as Piper spread out with a sigh. Reyna didn’t know how much of the night was left, but probably very little; so, she settled in, head aching from exhaustion, tears, and the beginnings of a hangover as her buzz started to dissolve. It was probably wise to get some sleep if she could, even though closing her eyes sounded like the least appealing thing she could possibly do. She only hoped that she had enough to drink to sleep hard and dreamless because she didn’t want to face the fresh pain of a wound picked open again in the depths of her nightmares.

It took a while, but just as her lids grew heavy enough to slide closed and her mind blissfully blank enough to drift off into sleep, the door to the security office loudly screeched open, jolting her fully awake. She huffed, disappointed and feeling ill, but she didn’t move, certain the newcomer was just a change in shift. She was wrong.

“Hey, Nicky!” the security guard greeted, tone suddenly friendly and good-natured, “What brings you my way in the middle of the night? Hope you ain’t here for the loudmouth and the new girl.”

Piper sat bolt upright. “Nick, you beautiful metal man, you have great timing!”

Reyna rolled over. Sure enough, there was Detective Nick Valentine, standing in front of the officer’s desk, arms akimbo like a disapproving father and shaking his head like one, too. “Sorry to say I am, Jimmy,” he sighed, tone oozing disapproval. Reyna had the grace to look chastened, but she wasn’t really the type to blush. Mostly, she just looked extremely uncomfortable.

“You know the mayor told us to keep her locked up and throw away the key the next time she slipped up,” Officer Jimmy informed the detective.

Piper made a noise of disgust. “Oh, nice! Using Diamond City’s security force against its own citizens, now! Gross abuse of power is what that is, Jimmy!”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “See what I gotta put up with?” He jerked his thumb in Piper’s direction.

“She only gets worse when she’s sober,” Nick pointed out slyly, “Why don’t you cut ‘em both loose, huh? I’ll make sure they get home safe and sound. Get ‘em out of your hair.” Piper huffed, indignant, but wisely held her tongue. Something about the way the scene was playing out tickled Reyna’s suspicions. _This isn’t the first time the synthetic dick bailed the newshound out._

“I don’t know, Nicky…”

“Come on. It’s the middle of the night. No one got hurt. It was just a couple gals havin’ a laugh. Surely it’s not worth the aggravation.”

Jimmy sighed in defeat. “Alright, alright,” he relented, “But only ‘cause it’s you, Nicky. And you did my ma a good turn when my pa went missin’. Don’t tell nobody.”

Nick covered his mechanical heart with his metal hand. “Cross my heart.”

Jimmy fiddled with his keys as he stood from his desk and made his way over to the cell. He made a big show out of unlocking the door, sighing like he knew what he was doing was going to come back and bite him in the ass someday. The second the lock slid back, Piper popped up from the bottom bunk and immediately slipped through the instant the door swung wide enough before the officer had the chance to change his mind. Reyna slid off the top bunk and swayed, apparently not quite as sober as she thought she was, but she recovered and hurried through to freedom after Piper. They only had to endure Jimmy’s annoying reprimands about staying out of trouble long enough for him to return their weapons and ammo. “And you,” he said, pointing at Reyna specifically; she stilled, eyes narrowing slightly, “I know you’re new around here, so a little advice? You might want to choose your friends more carefully. Piper’s a bit of a troublemaker.”

Reyna glanced at Piper who, for once, didn’t have a snarky comment to make. In fact, she looked a little pained and embarrassed and didn’t quite meet Reyna’s gaze. Trouble followed Piper like a shadow, alright. That was plain to see from the moment Reyna met her earlier that afternoon, locked out of the very city she called home for printing something the mayor didn’t like. Maybe she even chased after that kind of danger sometimes. When the stakes were right. When the story was worth the risk. But always for the right reasons. Reyna didn’t have to know the reporter long to see that. There was a righteous fire that burned bright in Piper and wasn’t easily smothered. Some folks just couldn’t handle that, now or two hundred years ago, because fire _burned_ when you stood too close and shed light into dark corners where secrets and monsters and ugly truths lived.

“My kind of trouble,” she said to Jimmy and the officer scoffed and shook his head, muttering what a shame that was, “Have a good night, officer.” She plucked a cigarette free from the pack with her lips and lit it on her way down the corridor to the exit.

“Thanks again, Jimmy,” Nick reiterated, “You’re a good man. Give your mother my best.”

“Keep those dames out of trouble!” Jimmy called out one last time, his voice echoing down the hallway after them, bouncing off the concrete walls before they stepped through the door and out into the brisk night.

Standing out on what Reyna recognized used to be the away team’s dugout, she puffed on her cigarette and enjoyed her freedom. However temporary her imprisonment had been, it was still nice to be out of the cell. One good thing about the end of the world was how easy it was to see the stars at night again. With little to no light pollution, they sparkled like gems in the inky blackness. _Small things_ , she thought. Sometimes it helped to find little snippets of beauty amidst so much ugliness, those glittering silver linings on fat, green radiation-storm clouds. It kept her sane.

“What am I going to do with you two?” Nick sighed, tsking.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Piper began.

“Yes it is,” Reyna corrected.

“Alright, maybe it is, but how did you know we were locked up?”

Nick didn’t answer right away and ushered them out of the shadow of the dugout security office before he finally spoke. “I _might_ have thought to swing by the Kellogg place myself and have a look,” he admitted.

Reyna chuckled and Piper playfully swatted at the detective’s arm. “You’re just as bad,” the reporter accused.

“Just to have a look around,” he repeated, insisting, “I wasn’t going to search the place alone.”

“And what? Security just happened to mention they picked us up somewhere between your place and Kellogg’s?”

Nick smirked. “That would have been easier,” he said and produced Piper’s lost screwdriver from the pocket of his trench coat, “Lose something, kid?”

Piper plucked her screwdriver from his metal fingers. “You’re good, gumshoe. You’re good,” she complimented and stuffed the tool in an inside pocket.

Reyna just smiled mutely, listening to her companions banter as they strolled through the nearly empty market square toward _Publick Occurrences_ , content to just be a part of the moment without having to contribute. She was far too emotionally spent for anything else. They were immediately greeted by an overwrought Codsworth and excitable Dogmeat when Piper opened the door. Nat was roused in the commotion, but, eager for sleep, everyone went their separate ways with promises to meet up at Nick’s in the morning—possibly afternoon if the hangover and exhaustion was bad enough. Then Detective Nick Valentine walked Reyna to the _Dugout Inn_.

They didn’t say anything at first. Mostly, they just listened to Codsworth prattle on about what a little hustler Nat was, putting him to work distributing papers while Reyna and Piper were gone. Reyna found it amusing, and so did Nick who chuckled warmly at Codsworth’s consternation. “She’s a good kid,” he assured, “She didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I’m sure she is, sir,” Codsworth conceded, whether out of politeness or earnestness, it was hard to tell, “But, as the saying goes: There’s no rest for the wicked.”

Nick smirked. “That’s true. But it’s a wicked world.”

“Always has been,” Reyna added.

The detective looked at her sideways. “Doesn’t have to be.”

She hoped not. Even if that was a silly, naïve hope to have now or before or ever. The world she would have Shaun live in would be a kinder one if she could help it. “No. Doesn’t have to be,” she agreed with a hint of a smile and she searched the scarred, worn features of Nick’s face for a moment, still so intrigued by the expressiveness of his artificial visage. She wasn’t staring, exactly, but her lingering gaze was noticed and hints of discomfort started to show in the detective’s face. “Thanks for—” she glanced at Codsworth, “—getting us out,” she said, vaguely, reaching for a change in subject to alleviate the growing sense of awkwardness her gawking caused, “I wasn’t looking forward to spending the night there.”

Nick also glanced at the Mr. Handy unit, catching on. “Happy to do it,” he said, mirroring the answer she had given Ellie when the sweet secretary thanked her for saving her overeager employer.

“It’s not a small thing.”

“Neither was what you did for me, today. With Skinny.”

“You’re already helping me with Shaun…” she objected.

Nick shrugged. “Maybe let’s not keep score. It won’t get us anywhere, anyway, and we’re just starting out.”

That was fair. “Have it your way, detective,” she said, reasonably.

“A rare treat. I never get my way.”

She chuckled at that. He opened the door for her when they reached the _Dugout_ _Inn_. “Goodnight, Reyna. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Reyna smiled appreciatively and bid the detective goodnight, comforted that there was at least one last, genuine gentleman left in the Commonwealth—even if he wasn’t exactly human _._ She went inside, spoke with the barkeep and took a room for the night.

Like everything else in the Commonwealth, the _Dugout_ had seen better days. It was dark and dirty, but cheap and the bartender and co-owner, Vadim, was personable enough that she didn’t feel unsafe which was a rare occurrence. She paid her caps and went to her room, flicked on the light, and nearly cried with joy when she saw the standing shower in the small bathroom. She had forgotten Diamond City had running water. “Shall I prepare your bed while you bathe, ma’am?” Codsworth offered.

Reyna looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He opened his shining metal casing to reveal neatly folded linens that had the fewest number of stains on them that Reyna had encountered so far. “I took the liberty of securing these before we left Sanctuary, ma’am. Just in case,” he explained almost sheepishly, “It’s not much, but accommodations are not what they once were, I’m afraid.”

Reyna just thunked her head against the curve of his body and hugged him. “Yes, thank you, Codsworth. That would be amazing,” she muttered.

He brightened. “Very good, ma’am.”

She shed her gear, armor, and clothing in waves as she approached the shower, leaving a trail that followed her into the bathroom. She had to strongarm the faucet before water ran without sputtering, but once the shower was going strong, she stepped into the stream and groaned with relief. The water wasn’t hot, but lukewarm was good enough and she spent the first five minutes just soaking it in before she realized she didn’t have any soap. “Codsworth,” she called.

“Your soap, ma’am.” His robot arm patiently held out the homemade, unevenly cut bar for her without skipping a beat.

“You’re a godsend, Codsworth.” She took the soap and lathered it between her hands, smoothing the harsh suds over her skin and scrubbing the dirt, grime, and sweat from her body with a rough rag. Even in a diminished state, bathing like this was such a supreme luxury that she wanted to stay in the shower stall as long as possible, despite her fatigue. So she lingered until the water ran cold and then stayed a little longer.

About halfway through, Codsworth finished tidying the room and making up the bed, so he gathered her dirty clothing up and examined it for wear and tear. “Shall I wash your apparel when you’re finished, ma’am? I believe I can manage to clean them by hand with a little Abraxo powder in the sink.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Reyna agreed, “There’s a lot of—brain matter—on the sweater…”

“I can see that, ma’am.”

She stepped out of the shower and dried herself with a ratty towel, squeezing the excess water from her hair with both hands before returning to the larger room and digging through her pack which Codsworth had left on a chair in the corner. “Was it a tough fight to rescue Mr. Valentine, Miss Reyna?” Codsworth asked as she donned a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

“Not worse than the sentrybot at the National Guard.” She had a few brutal scars from that adventure. “But it was no walk in the park, either.”

“A walk in the park now wouldn’t be a walk in the park, ma’am.”

“Good point.”

“Do you need a stimpak?”

“I’m fine.”

“Forgive me, ma’am, but I couldn’t help but notice you have a rather large bruise across your back…”

“It was just a triggerman with a baseball bat, I can manage.” She was running low on stimpaks and was unwilling to use what remained of her stores on something she considered minor.

“As you wish, ma’am.”

“Thank you for your concern, though, Codsworth,” she sighed, “You’re too good to me.” He really was. She knew it was the programming, in theory, but in practice, it was a kindness that helped keep her afloat. If not for him, she probably would have gone hungry for the first few days she was so overwhelmed by the enormity of her situation. But he had brought her food and terrible jokes at regular intervals. The crude meals weren’t always delicious, but serviceable, safe, and warm. That counted for a lot in the wasteland. And the jokes sometimes made her laugh, too.

“It is my pleasure, Miss Reyna.”

She smiled weakly at him and slipped under the scratchy and thin but clean blanket spread over the creaky hotel bed. Though yellowed and splotchy, the clean sheets made a big difference, and she felt herself starting to drift off easily. Dogmeat leapt up to lay beside her and she snuggled against his warmth, grateful that she hadn’t had to spend a night without another body laying next to her since Nate’s death. She didn’t think she could stand that kind of loneliness.

“Mr. Valentine certainly seems very professional, ma’am,” Codsworth said from the bathroom.

“He is,” she muttered tiredly into her pillow.

“Do you think he will really be able to help find young Shaun?” There was so much hope in that programmed voice, it made Reyna’s heart ache.

“Yes,” she nearly whispered, “If not him, who else?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably unimportant side note, but do you know how easy it is to make soap? I refuse to believe that it is easier to make _drugs_ at the chem station than a simple, crude bar of soap, lol.


End file.
